


Man of the Cloth

by forgetcanon



Series: a rising tide raises all starships [4]
Category: The Outer Worlds (Video Game)
Genre: Character Analysis, Clothing, Gen, better write some kinda angsty introspective stuff about that, hey max has never had to buy his own clothing before huh?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:34:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27356572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forgetcanon/pseuds/forgetcanon
Summary: When he was sixteen, assigned his first set of OSI garments, he had spent more time than he could care to admit walking back and forth, to and from his quarters- past the clear glass-paned entrance. It was the one good place in the compound where someone could get a glimpse of their own reflection.He walked straighter, he thought. Or, heshouldwalk straighter, like the vicars and bishops who taught him. Shoulders even, the long skirt of the cossack making even his lanky form graceful, dignified.
Relationships: mentioned Max/Captain
Series: a rising tide raises all starships [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1591603
Comments: 11
Kudos: 19





	Man of the Cloth

**Author's Note:**

> This is devoted to all the people out there who dress Max up in whatever outfit makes him look sexiest.

When he was sixteen, assigned his first set of OSI garments, he had spent more time than he could care to admit walking back and forth, to and from his quarters- past the clear glass-paned entrance. It was the one good place in the compound where someone could get a glimpse of their own reflection.

He walked straighter, he thought. Or, he _should_ walk straighter, like the vicars and bishops who taught him. Shoulders even, the long skirt of the cossack making even his lanky form graceful, dignified. Later, he traded a few packs of cigarettes for something not many had- a hand mirror.

“You should spend less time looking in that thing and more time studying,” one of his roommates said, once, annoyed at Max tweezing his eyebrows in the good light from the desk lamp while he read on his bed.

“We represent OSI, now,” Max had replied. “The human spirit, reaching for the cosmic truths of the universe. You should take more care in how _you_ present yourself.”

His room mate tossed a balled-up sock at him.

—

Prison had no reflective surfaces, but Max knew well what he looked like. He saw it every day, in the other inmates. Did he deserve this? Was abandoning his home, leaving it all to pursue the truth, so far away from what the Architect had ordained for him that the only way to correct it was _this_?

No. It couldn’t be. There was another lesson in this, surely. This was a test. Max would come out this more devoted to his cause than ever, and he would prove to everyone who ever doubted him that he had been _right_ , that there was a reason their pursuit of the Plan had stagnated. Reggie provided the means, but it was up to Max to make his own way.

When he had served his term, the first thing he did was shave his beard and cut his hair. Like he was coming out of hibernation, or shedding a skin. Putting on his robes, he felt like himself for the first time in years. He left the prison uniform on the floor of the changing cubicle. He was a vicar, a man of the cloth. Not an inmate identification number. Not a prison uniform, complete with bloodied fists and manic eyes.

—

At first, Edgewater was a blessing. Only Reed knew the truth behind Max’s last decade. Everyone else in town took one look at Max’s frock, at the carefully shorn and gelled hair, and they knew him for who he really was: he was their vicar.

The surrounding areas of Edgewater were lovely, in a treacherous way. Out there, one didn’t have the time to admire the way lava had solidified in arcs and whorls, or how puffballs propagated themselves in precarious perches like performers. Max learned the hard way to keep a sharp eye out for primals, canids, and the crazed marauders that the town both feared and refused to speak about.

Even his own predecessor had gone mad and fled to the wilderness, something Max came to consider in the following years. He knew where to look for what he needed. It was a laughably close distance to the walls of the main settlement, only about an hour’s walk. Yet, like the Plan was mocking him specifically, a band of marauders had taken up roost there. A very defensible position, especially considering that Max was only one man.

He had to come at it a different way, he thought. He had to think over his plan again. And for almost a year, he did not even leave the walls of Edgewater. He was back to a town so much like the one in which he’d been raised that he sometimes fancied he could make up his flock’s confessions based on pattern-recognition alone.

He was their vicar. No one had a reason to think he was anything more. They must have been terribly confused when he left them behind.

—

“You should get some real armor, if we’re going to be doing this Roseway thing,” his captain suggested. “That frock is lovely to look at, but I don’t think your Architect’s going to be stopping bullets for you.”

“That’s not how it works-” Max started, turning. His new captain was holding out a bit cart for him to take. Her eyes were expectant. “-But, nevertheless. Thank you, captain.”

He bought the set that Belle recommended. She had a stake in whether he returned in the future to buy more ammo, after all. With the helmet on, he could have been anyone at all. Just another mercenary.

That was fine. Max always knew the truth.

—

Except. Except that the armor got partially ruined by a raptidon trying to swallow him, so he had to switch out the legs with a set of Auntie Cleo’s security’s armor. And Monarch was so hard on clothing that he ended up buying an outfit just for being in Fallbrook rather than ruin his cassock. And then that set got ruined while they were moving a dozen crates containing a rare chemical that may not have hurt but did stain fluorescent green.

And then their meanderings finally took them to Scylla, and.

The man he hallucinated was tall, broad-shouldered. (Max knew he was tall and broad-shouldered, too.)

He wore his cassock gracefully, like a second skin. (Sometimes Max got his caught on an exposed bolt. Sometimes when he rose from a crouch he managed to step on the hem.)

He was imposing, but beautiful; approachable, but distant. And he wasn’t real. He never had been real. Except to Max, and all Max had ever done was try to be that man.

Perhaps he should stop trying to be that man, and instead be… whatever he was turning out to be.

And, honestly, what he was right now was overheating in his damn high collar and long sleeves.

—

Maisie, despite her claims to anarchy and dissension, loved clothes. It didn’t matter that she spent most of her time in armor, or that the places they didn’t go in full armor tended to be shitty bars and backwater settlements. Any time a vendor was selling something to be worn, out came the bit cart.

So perhaps he should have asked her advice. But here he was, perusing Ike’s selection of casual gear, trying to figure out what the hell he was going to wear from now on. Something with pockets would be nice, after so many years in the cassock- but all of these outfits had multitudes. Cuts of jacket, colors of shirts, close-cropped or straight-leg pants…

“The green one,” Maisie said, and Max jumped. “The green jacket, with the matching tie-thing.”

“I’m not certain I should be taking advice from someone who calls it a ‘tie-thing.’”

“Then what is it actually called?” Maisie asked, casually linking her arm with his. “Tell me that, and I’ll leave you to your shopping in peace.”

Max honestly didn’t know, himself. “It’s just a tie,” he said, and Maisie suppressed a smile.

“Of course it is. And I say you should get that one, because it matches your eyes.” She kissed his cheek, unwound her arm, and continued on her merry way.

He got a dark blue set of soft clothing that looked like it would be comfortable to wear around the ship, and an outfit with a vest that would hide a sidearm for if they ever wanted to be discreet. Was there a truth to be known, after all? One, simple truth, one simple worldview? One, simple man?

(And, yes, he bought the one with the green jacket, hiding it in the middle of his pile of purchases like a secret.)

**Author's Note:**

> Listen, Max has an undercut. You know the fucking maintenance that would require, especially when he has to shave his own sides on the Unreliable? That's a conscious choice on his part. No wonder the guy takes an hour in the bathroom.


End file.
